


stranger than you dreamt it

by JenelleLucia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Ultra Rarepair Big Bang (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), hi i'm back :), reverse phantom of the opera au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenelleLucia/pseuds/JenelleLucia
Summary: she's there (the phantom of the opera). // dorothea/hubert, and a very very loose phantom of the opera - based reverse phantom au.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

_.01 --_

_._

_._

_._

“Did you expect that I wouldn’t notice…?” 

“You have eyes everywhere -- even in the shadows. You’re never hard to miss.” 

Hubert has no need to fear the phantom -- not like everyone does. The legends of how the phantom appeared at the Mittelfrank Opera Company differ from person to person, and he’s seen more singers and crew people and managers alike come in and quit and like to say that they’ve lived to tell the tale. Hubert doesn’t think it’s too much of a tale to be told. 

“You’re a femme fatale, as the people say,” he continues, hearing a mix of the _click - clack_ of her heels against and the soft _creak_ of the wooden floors that he walks upon as she steps out from the shadows. “You were a diva of the Mittelfrank Opera Company once. That’s what everyone says when they invoke your name.” 

“I was a _diva_ , not a witch,” she corrects him, crossing her arms. “I was proud of it, though. Extremely proud of it,” she keeps her head held high. “I still am.” 

“It’s been years since you’ve sung last.” 

“Five, to be exact. It’s been a good five years since I’ve stepped on stage.” She finally emerges before him dressed ever so regally, along with an ivory mask worn upon her face. He's seen her plenty of times before -- she remains in the shadows, listening to him compose his songs, but he could see her silhouette standing there absolutely still. Sometimes she would step out and sometimes she would hum along, changing notes and tunes and instead of her following him he would follow her. 

“They receive your letters.” Hubert stands a bit straighter. He’s not scared of her in the slightest; he doesn’t think that he has to be, not when she favors him most of all. “They receive all your letters about keeping box five open.” 

“And they don’t listen,” she quips back. “They most certainly don’t listen, and of course I give them what they rightfully deserve.” The way she says so, she grits her teeth and gets the words out between them. 

“Box five must be special to you.” 

There’s a smile that curls up onto the phantom’s face. “It’s a lucky number.” 

In return, a smile curls up on Hubert's own. “I never took you for the superstitious type.” 

“We don’t normally speak, I’ll have you know. It’s always been me listening into your compositions.” She takes his hand. “We don’t have time left here, do we, Hubie?” 

“You intend to take me someplace.” The phantom’s lips purse. He can always figure her out so easily. 

“That’s not so hard to figure out, is it?”

“All you’ve done is listen to my compositions, and the way that your lips purse is another type of body language I've grown ever accustomed to,” he points out, watching as she takes his hand. Her fingers intertwine with his. “Where exactly are we going?”  
  
The small, wry smile that the phantom had worn earlier returns to her face. 

“You’ll know.” 

. 

Hubert, actually, does _not_ know. 

He doesn’t know where they’re going, because they’re moving in silence save for the sound of their heels _click - clacking_ against cobblestone. The corridors that she led him through are lit with torches on either side; knowing what the phantom was capable of, one wrong word and she could have fed him to the flames. He reminds himself that she favors him, for the most part. She’s the one who sings along with his melodies that he composes, listens to fanciful stories that he thought he’d never be capable of coming up with again. 

(She’s the one, he reminds himself, of changing his tunes and his melodies and when they’re finally performed on stage they’re considered masterpieces. 

She makes his masterpieces. He follows her.) 

It remains that way even now; he lets her lead the way, watches as soft brown waves of hair bounce at the ends as she walks. He watches the slight hop in her step; she doesn’t look back at him to make sure that he’s there, but instead she squeezes his hand. Hubert doesn’t know whether or not to squeeze back; so he just… keeps it there. 

They move through the corridors, her holding the torch to light their path ever so carefully. All that breaks the silence is their steps on the cobblestone, and they move slowly, and Hubert has to remind himself that the phantom doesn’t -- _will not_ , from the likes of it -- glance back at him once. He figures that this is how it’s going to be for the rest of their journey. 

He walks on with her, and aside from the sound of their heels against their cobblestone paths and the twists and turns that she deftly leads him through is the sound of rushing water. It’s louder and louder, and as they get closer it seems to resound from… no. There’s no such thing, he wants to believe. 

(Architecture is a wonderful thing, really.) 

When they come across a lake after walking a bit more, Hubert notices that there’s a boat there. It’s tied to the pier, only distances away, and the phantom lets go of his hand to place the torch on a nearby stand. She walks close to the pier, pulling the boat closer and she holds it down so that Hubert could get on first. 

“I’d never thought I'd see anything like this.” That’s the softest the phantom’s ever heard his voice go, and she finally glances back at him for a moment before turning forward. 

“Get in,” she tells him, nodding towards the boat. “We have to go.” 

He complies, and he takes her hand once more as he allows her to help him. The currents and from what he can hear a distance away -- a waterfall, it seems -- are their only noise as she unlaces the boat from where it's tied, takes the oars, and rows them both away. Hubert only watches her, unsure if he should ask for help or otherwise, but once he sees that she handles it he takes in his surroundings. 

“This is a reservoir,” she tells him. He had certainly heard of those; they pass by the source of the noise, the waterfall that he was looking for, and the phantom keeps rowing onward. “This is the city’s water and what not. it’s nothing special, I suppose.” 

“And this must be your method of transportation.” 

“Guilty as charged. I’d think that I'm rather quite good at it.” 

A small smile ghosts on Hubert's face. The phantom seems to notice it. 

“You’re smiling,” she notes, continuing to row onwards. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before.” 

“I don't normally,” Hubert looks to the side as he says so. “I haven’t found much to smile about, really.” 

“A shame.” He purses his lips; she might think so.  
  
He can’t help but agree, and for the rest of the time they move onward. It’s silent once more between them, and Hubert notices that they’ve gotten to their destination when the phantom docks. She’s careful when she gets out first, rope in hand, and she pulls the boat a little closer in before tying its rope around the column that she normally docked it on. She secures the rope a little tighter before holding her hand out to help Hubert. 

He glances around at their surroundings, and it’s… small, and cozy, to say the least. The phantom watches him as he observes what’s around him. There are candelabras and small chandeliers here and there, and there’s an organ and a small piano, and there’s music sheets everywhere. this must be where she sits. He can make out the pieces, to say the least. There are plenty of things that he can make out here.  
  
“I suppose you can write now in peace. I can listen to you here from instead of listening in the shadows,” is what she tells him. “Everything is at your disposal. whatever you want, Hubie… it’s all here for you.” 

Hubert takes a step closer to the organ, where there are music sheets strewn about. When he looks over at the piano, it’s just about the same. He can make out music stands and sheets, there are posters of the shows that he’s composed and the shows that she’s performed in hanging on a vanity a little ways away. 

“I take it that you’re not much of a writer yourself,” he tells her. The phantom shakes her head. 

“That's why I have you, don’t I?” she asks. That small smile that she had seen on his face earlier returns, and she takes his hand once more. She leads him over to the piano, then taking him by his shoulders and she gently sits him down on the bench. 

“Write,” she whispers, leaning down to him. Her hands perch on his shoulders, watching him closely for whatever moves he decides to make next. “Whatever you need is here, so don’t worry about anything. Just write.” 

They sit together -- sometimes in silence, and other times when she sings for him again -- their pattern never changes, even now that she’s out of the shadows and that she’s closer to him. It’s strangely peaceful here, Hubert finds; the waterfall that they had passed resounds in the distance and the soft currents of the reservoir behind him tide up and down quietly. He works quickly and quietly, writing new compositions left and right and he works out whatever other compositions that he manages to write. 

The phantom, in the meanwhile, sleeps by his side. She’s sitting in the seat next to his, and he’s since draped his coat over her shoulders. She continues to nap quietly; she had been for… well, Hubert hasn’t been keeping track. He's been writing, as she had told him to before. Her mask is slightly askew, and her breathing is soft and even. She sleeps rather peacefully for the most part, and she’s not troubled by anything. 

(He’d seen it in her eyes; she’s troubled by something -- and it was a given, really, that she was.  
  
He had been able to read her so easily, after all.) 

Hubert doesn’t really do anything except watch her. He watches the way that her breath rises and falls ever so soundlessly, the way that her soft brown hair frames her face. He’s organized to a degree, but he never really bothered so much on appearances until he saw the way that her mask was askew. He wants to reach out and fix it for her. kind of like a courtesy, almost but he can’t. 

He can’t bring himself to touch it. Why? 

His eyes drift to other parts of the phantom instead. Her hands, dainty and they’re covered with gloves, so he can’t really see what they’re like. She sleeps so soundlessly, and she looks so at peace for once and it seems like there’s nothing in the world that can bother her. He reminds herself that he’s seen it in her face, that there are plenty of things that have bothered her, and yet she plays it off like there’s nothing. 

He takes in the curve of her lips, her eyelashes beneath her mask and how soft they are, and at the same time how long. She’s not so dainty after all; he’s seen from the way that she terrorizes the opera house, from guests to those who work there alike. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and she favors him all the same. she treats him so sweetly, he recalls, so … so carefully, not that he needed to be, and she’s given him everything thus far. He wonders why. 

There’s no dwelling on it now, he supposes. His fingers inch towards her mask again, but they crease and they falter. He’s so close, and she’s right there -- she’s there, and unsuspecting, and for a moment he thinks that it’s wrong, and at the same time Hubert wants to think that there are things that he’s done wrong to get to where he was, thinking that _this_ was wrong shouldn’t have been one of them. 

His fingers stretch forward again, they reach for her one more time. His fingers brush up against her mask, feeling the borders of it beneath his gloves and how delicately made it was. The mask must have taken much time to make and she must have had it for quite some time. Hubert grasps at the edge of it carefully, his only intention to fix the slipping mask, but it’s askew already and he wants to try and fix it more and instead for all his fumbling it slips off entirely. 

Hubert's eyes widen with who he sees, and soon enough hazel eyes meet his own. 

. 

She’s beautiful. 

Hubert is surprised by a beautiful face behind the mask, as he holds it in one hand and in the faint candlelight he can see her full face. The faint candlelight beholds dark brown waves and hazel eyes staring back at him, lips turned into a soft pout as she gazes at him. He’s surprised to find her here, 

“Dorothea,” leaves his lips. She was supposed to be _missing_ **_,_ **Dorothea. Her fall from grace from the Mittelfrank Opera Company stage was not a pleasant one, Dorothea. And here she is, hiding deeper, deeper beneath the grounds of the opera company, Dorothea. 

(It’s her, here, _Dorothea_.) 

She doesn’t flinch when he removes her mask, nor does she react as he keeps his gaze on her. They stay like that for a moment, in the flickering candlelight. 

“Is this what you wanted to see?” she finally asks after a moment or so of silence. “Am I who you expected to see?” 

“Supposedly ‘haunting’ my company? No. No, I did not.” 

“My apologies, then. I’m all you’re going to see.” 

That’s more like it, for Dorothea to argue back much like during her days as the opera company’s main diva. Hubert still can’t comprehend it, the way she stands there despite the mask she wears -- _had worn_ \-- dressed as if she were ready for another show the night of. _She_ had been the one running each show, _she_ had been the one causing the accidents the past five years in the wake of her disappearance. 

_She -- she --_

“Why did you do it?” is what Hubert asks. 

“Why did _I_ do it?” Dorothea repeats, watching him almost so incredulously. “Why did I do it?” 

She lets go of him from where she pins him up against the wall, turning away from him as she glances from her full body mirror. She glances from her mirror to the rickety wardrobe, then back to him. There’s no need to search for an explanation; it’s clear on her face. 

“I was a star, Hubert.” There’s no need for nicknames -- no need for ‘Hubie,’ for now. “I was a star, everyone knew it. I knew where I stood years ago, I worked my way up from the ground to get where I was and for what? The nobles who used me when I knew that chasing after them wasn’t worth it? _Knowing_ that’s what got me stepped on and trampled over countless times despite my status as a diva, as a star?” 

There’s a sense of urgency in her voice -- Hubert knows that all too well. years ago, when he had only been in the audience, he had heard it as such. Despite that urgency Dorothea's eyes glisten with the same sadness, almost exactly the same _contempt_ for those who brought her there years ago. 

“I want to say I was lucky,” Dorothea continues, glancing away from her companion. “I _wanted_ to say that I was lucky, Hubie, but I couldn’t. I cannot, to this day.” 

It was never about being a star in the end, despite her work. Despite her passions and most of all, despite the fact that that’s what brought her from above the ground. now, she finds, that’s what brought her back down. 

“That suitor of yours,” Hubert asks for a moment of silence. There's a bitter smile on Dorothea's face when he mentions him. “Where did he --” 

“He just… got up and left me one day, without so much as a goodbye. He was never for me,” she whispers. “It was never for me, but for my money then. For my beauty. For my song. Never for me.” 

_Never for my troubles. Never for the baggage that came with me. Never, never, never._

Dorothea figures that that’s enough for now. Hubert doesn’t know whether or not to feel sorry for her, or ask what more she could have done and why she couldn’t have just returned. She could have; she knows that she could have and yet 

(She didn’t.) 

“Come,” she tells him, then getting back up to her feet after a moment or two. “We’ll have to get back. Everyone’s going to be looking for you.” 

That seemed to have been some kind of understatement, really. 

From below the ground, Dorothea can’t tell what time it is; as she hurries him back off to the lake, through the halls, and where she had first found him she knew that it was going to be busier than when she had first arrived. She’s right, when she hears footsteps outside his door and people calling Hubert’s name. 

(His disappearance must have caused quite the stir.) 

She leaves him where she had first found her, and he hands her back her mask. 

“You will say nothing,” she tells him almost immediately. “You’ll pretend that you had no idea that it was me. You won’t tell anyone that --” 

“Is this a request, or is this a command?” he asks, glancing out the window. It’s daylight. 

“...Up to you. However you want to interpret this exchange, Hubie.” Dorothea’s since finished fastening her mask. “Pretend, Hubie. Like everyone on stage does.” 

Hubert doesn’t say anything, and only instead nods. Dorothea nods in return.  
  
“Alright then.” 

She purses her lips, heading back in the direction that they had come from the night before. Hubert sits and recollects the events of last night before Caspar barges in, lets out a sigh of relief when he sees him and tells him to head home for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

_.02 --_

. 

. 

. 

Hubert sits at his piano; instead, he does not play. 

He doesn’t write, he doesn’t compose… he doesn’t do anything. He focuses on the ticking metronome in front of him, expecting him to compose something, anything and he finds that he can’t. He focuses instead on the events of the night before. He focuses on how the phantom took him through the shadows, or how the phantom led him to her little world tucked comfortably beneath the opera house. 

Most of all, he thinks of how she had let him in on a moment of some peace; she slept in front of him so comfortably, so _vulnerably_ that 

(He does not dare think of that anymore. He focuses on another thought.) 

Dorothea was the phantom -- _is_ the phantom, that's the correct way to put it. He gathers his thoughts together and they're all the same. Dorothea Arnault, presumed to have disappeared after having fallen from grace, _is_ the phantom. She’s the phantom who haunts the opera company and requests for box five every performance; she’s the phantom who favors him most of all. She's the phantom who whispers sweet nothings that allude to each one of his compositions or when she feels that he’s not being given enough she fights his battles to ensure that he’s given more. 

Not that he needed anyone for that in the first place, he thinks. It takes certain people to really appreciate his genius; that just so happened to be Dorothea. 

Hubert wants to ask himself _why_ she fights so hard for him, why she whispers those sweet nothings and sings along to his songs. She doesn’t _have_ to. Strangely enough, Dorothea could have latched onto Ferdinand maybe, or Lady Edelgard, or even Caspar. _Caspar,_ if she really wanted to. Instead, she latches closely to him and listens and sings and fights, and the cycle of her terror never ends. 

He's lucky that he’s not afraid of her, nor is she afraid of him. He wants to think that she has no reason to be, but even the depths of his genius could be...questioned, to say the least. 

There hasn’t been much to do since Caspar had sent him home, and Hubert's focus just so happened to be at quite a low. He wonders what Dorothea had done with the compositions that he had written last night. It wouldn’t have surprised him, he thinks as he gets up to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee, if she had submitted those to be reviewed along with a couple… letters to make sure that his pieces were performed accordingly. There were plenty of other things that Dorothea could have done in the meanwhile. 

He’s a bit restless at home, when he easily could have been preparing for the show tonight, or writing compositions. Hubert settles down in his chair, staring at the metronome ticking away and that maybe there’s not much time before he has to head in to the next show. He checks his pocket watch; he finds that he has more time left before he has to head in. 

_What to do, what to do…_

He finds that he could clean. There are old compositions strewn out on the table, some of them having been completed and were ready to be sold to other opera houses for performance. There are others that have been rejected, or were just simply incomplete because he had lost inspiration for it. He gives them glances once more; he supposes that he could… _try_ to rework them. 

He thinks back to Dorothea's hideaway, where there were compositions strewn left and right. A good majority of them were unfinished, and there were plenty more, he remembered her telling him before she dozed off, where they came from. He reworked a good number of them to the best of his ability, then starting on new ones -- so on and so forth. 

(How he could get his hands on those.) 

Instead, as the metronome ticks slowly, back and forth, back and forth hubert sits with his coffee and he thinks. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks until he’s finished with his cup and leaves to get another. 

. 

The opera company bustles with chatter in the wake of Hubert's absence. Most of the chatter, really, stems from his disappearance the night before, and his sudden return. There are rumors bustling about where he had gone; there are some that say he escaped to an underground gambling ring, or met a lover. 

The most popular one, the whispers and eager chatters get out, is that he was stolen away by the phantom. 

“Think about it, Linhardt!” Caspar paces back and forth on the stage as he glances down at the empty seats in the audience. Linhardt, in the meanwhile, reviews the notes from the night before… and of course, the notes for the show, finances, and so on. He has half a mind to listen to Caspar’s ramblings about the phantom of the Mittelfrank Opera, Hubert’s disappearance the night before, or otherwise. 

“See, I _would_ think about it, Caspar, but I’m busy thinking of plenty of other things like… oh, here’s a thought -- keeping the opera house afloat?” Linhardt looks at him pointedly. “We can think about the phantom, or the opera ghost, or whoever it is later. We can think about Hubert’s disappearance later too, but for now…” he holds up the notes. “Think of this.” 

“Come on, linhardt! you’re no fun!” 

“I’m only thinking of the rationale behind all of this.” Linhardt turns his attention back to the notes before him. “Anyways, who are we going to have conduct tonight if Hubert’s not feeling well? Ferdinand?” 

At that, Caspar scratches the top of his head. Linhardt has a point there. 

“Oh, well...yeah, I guess. That’s only if Hubert can’t make it tonight, though. I doubt that he won’t _not_ make it,” Linhardt answers, not looking up at Caspar as he reads. “Anyways, I have full faith that he’s going to make it tonight.” 

“He’s going to have to. You know what the phantom’s going to do if he doesn’t show up!” 

“Will you quit it about the phantom?” Linhardt finally sets his papers down and looks at Caspar pointedly, with an unamused look on his face. “There is no phantom, and whatever’s been happening is just… it’s just a series of mishaps.” 

“Then explain the letters that we got, and then the other letters that we’ve been getting, Linhardt.” 

“Someone’s probably just sending letters to scare us, and that’s what’s going on. There’s nothing else to it, and there’s nothing serious. It’d only be serious if someone got hurt.” 

“Manuela almost did, the first day we got here.” 

That makes Linhardt think. He has a point there, too. 

“Anyways, I just… think that we’re basing this over nothing right now. Aside from one occurrence, anyway,” Linhardt concludes. “Take a look at these notes while you’re at it, will you?” 

“Linhardt, you’re totally missing the -- oh. Oh, these are… a lot.” 

“Yes, they are.” 

. 

Sitting does absolutely nothing to ease Hubert’s mind; instead, he decides to head off to the opera house. He was sure that Caspar and Lady Edelgard were going to be against his arrival in favor of him getting his rest, and would reassure him that Ferdinand would take his place as the lead conductor; knowing that Dorothea would argue otherwise in a series of letters and threats that she wasn’t afraid to carry out? 

(He could only wonder what Dorothea was truly capable of, after all.)

Hubert takes his coat and his cloak, along with a bag full of his compositions and the score for the performance tonight. He has time, he finds, before Dorothea could pull something else out. He doesn’t have to wonder about anything tonight, and he had no need for the rest that he was encouraged to take. 

He just had to go in tonight. 

He’s unsure if he’ll hear from her tonight, but if he’s not visited by her then he’ll know of her presence in a letter -- of course, as he had the past couple nights prior, and especially when he had joined the opera company in general. When he finally gets to the opera house he immediately heads through the doors, watching as everyone crowds around and there’s a letter in Lady Edelgard’s hands. 

“The phantom left another letter,” she fills him once he comes to join them on the stage. “Here.” The letter, and it’s no surprise to anyone anymore, is addressed to Hubert; he wastes no time in dropping his bag, then taking the letter in his hands and carefully undoing the wax seal before beginning to read. If Caspar could really help it, he peeks over his shoulder and reads on. Hubert focuses on nothing but what he’s looking at. 

The contents of the letter, for the most part, are normal -- _reserve box five for me,_ the phantom writes. _My salary is due_ , she continues. There’s really nothing out of the ordinary in this letter, but Hubert directly hones in on a certain section of the letter. 

“‘Ferdinand is not to conduct tonight,’” he reads aloud. “‘Instead, you will have Hubert conduct, and have Ferdinand play the piano. I will watch tonight’s performance, and if nothing is to my liking…I would advise you all to watch your heads.’” That was… rather blunt of her, Hubert thinks. Her letters hadn’t been that way before; he had remembered how flowery, and how… _sweet_ , if he were to put it a certain way, they were. 

“If I was set to conduct tonight, then I should perform as I was scheduled,” Ferdinand shakes his head, then looking over at Hubert. “I would not let some...phantom run me out. Do you not think so, Hubert?” 

“I agree,” Linhardt speaks up. Hubert, in the meanwhile, purses his lips. Dorothea favors him to a good degree; she knows that he’s aware of what he’s capable of. When everyone looks back at him to make sure that he could go on without any sort of problems, Hubert doesn’t say anything more. 

“Do what you will,” is all he says. Surely, everyone else thinks, he doesn’t believe in the phantom and how she “runs” their opera company, through her letters. Once that’s all settled, he glances far back in the wings and faces forward once more. 

He picks up his bags, and follows the rest of the orchestra to prepare for rehearsal. 

. 

Dorothea hides in the shadows of box five, pursing her lips as she takes in the conversation that she had just listened into. They had received her letters -- as planned, of course -- and she had made sure Hubert had returned to them. She promised as such that he would, after all; she clenches a free hand into her fist, balling it up against the crushed velvet curtains before she turns away and starts off from where she had come. 

_They don’t plan on honoring her requests._ She holds her head high. 

_Ferdinand was going to conduct tonight, and Hubert was going to play._ Her fists clench at her sides. 

She walks faster, the sounds of her heels _click - clacking_ across the wood causing unsuspecting crew and cast to search for the noise, and she leaves them clueless in her wake. It’s no matter; they’ll find her soon enough tonight, just not in the way that they would expect to. 

“If you’re going to play it that way,” she murmurs to herself, slipping through the dark corridors and through the shadows unseen, glancing back up at the opera house she hides under. “Then I’ll do things my way, too.” 

_Hubert will play tonight. I'll make sure of it._

**Author's Note:**

> for ultra rarepair bigbang 2020. 
> 
> hi, hi !! this is my entry owo. it's chock full of months of rewriting and restructuring, and what came out of it is not just a very loose phantom of the opera / reverse phantom type deal, but also i know just about every song to heart because i wouldn't stop listening to it while i was writing. i did this piece in collaboration with my friend @TheKyaraMon on twitter, she has a lovely work of art to accompany it! 
> 
> love you so much, kyara, hehe happy belated birthday + thanks for doing this with me! 
> 
> you can follow us on twitter: @TheKyaraMon + @jenellexlucia


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